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June252015

researching a shooting

drawn to lethal catastrophes in the news like moths to a porch lightsmacking ourselves relentlesslyagainst something we cannot possiblyunderstand; if only a shred of thislight shined on the chaos in lifeto offer us some sort of explanation

drawn to accidents on the roadlike flies to rotten fruitour curious thirst quashedby destruction; regret poundingin our ears when we see blood.

drawn to violent, mysterious televisionlike a dog being served dinnerthe heart-racing eagerness andstrange fascination with the reasonsthat crafted characters choose to kill

does it help us somehow copewith the day-to-day batteryof injury and injustice?does it make it easier to holdour loved ones in death,onto our minds in crisis?

does it desensitize us so we canlive each day, even under insurmountable circumstances?does it smooth over our sufferingand place it in perspectiveso we can still face the world?

May242015

papa mcguiley

in 1977 papa mcguiley walked to the storebought a carton of cigarettesspat on the floorwalked outside to lookup at the skyto stare at the sidewalkand wonder whygod was so damn unfairwith all of his giftshis blessings and cursesas his mood quickly shiftsto leave a man as he wasso desperate and brokenlooking out in vainfor any old tokento show it made senseto keep striving alongeach morning and nightto sing the same songin 1977papa mcguiley walked to the storeand swore out at the winda man had faith no more.

February262015

The Dress

(a raymond carver inspired short story after viewing birdman)

Mattie
twirled around to face him, her delicate hands pinching the very bottom
of dark-maroon fabric. "What do you think?" Her face was alive with
color - her cheeks were flushed with a tint of red, her blue eyes
sparkled, and her teeth shone visibly against her modest lipstick.

Martin
bit his bottom lip. He blinked once, twice, as the initial thoughts
swirled in his head. Of course, Mattie looked incredible, as she always
did. He hated the tired cliche as soon as it tumbled through his mind.
Honestly, the color was a bit drab for his liking. The lace on the
sleeves seemed a little unnecessary.

"It's alright."

Some
of the light faded from her face, but the smile receded only slightly.
She turned, more slowly this time, to face herself in the mirror. "I
like it," she said, speaking to herself. "I don't love it."
Placing her hands on her hips, she continued to gaze at her expression
and made a few faces with her eyebrows and lips in the mirror.

Martin
shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He felt slightly
nervous. He valued Mattie for her honesty; she was the one who had told
him he tended to stare sometimes and it creeped her out. It crushed him
at first, and he felt useless, but when she saw him again the next day
it wasn't awkward. He was surprised, and relieved.

His
father, a big boozy man twice his size, would be shaking his head right
now. "Marty boy, you can't be honest with a woman," he'd say, chuckling.
"Always tell 'em they're beautiful. Unless you don't wanna fuck 'er
anymore." Martin thought briefly of his mother, with her pinched face
and corralled gray hair, her eyes always wide and empty.

"I
like the black one you have better," Martin volunteered. He could feel
the uneasiness creeping over him slowly. He remembered Mattie just an
hour earlier laughing about his awful parking job. He'd flushed bright
red, and she had hit him lightly on the arm. "Just kidding, babe!
Honestly, you're still a better driver than me."

Mattie
pursed her lips in the mirror and nodded. "No need," she said, still to
herself. "No need." Turning around sharply, she furrowed her brow and
waved him out of the dressing room so she could change.

Martin sat on the bench outside, twisting his hands around each other.

Mattie
flounced out a moment later, the maroon dress slung over one arm.
"Okay, ready to go?" Martin looked up at her cautiously. She looked down
at him and laughed again. "What, did you think I wanted to browse more?
This one just caught my eye. Let's get something to eat."

Martin
had a quick stab of regret - did she really not want to try anything
else on? Forget it, he reminded himself, just let his friend John had
told him. Stop complicating things, he'd said.

He smiled and stood up, taking her hand.

After
they sat down at the food court, Mattie went to the restroom. Martin
stared as his hand, wondering if she had gripped it just a little bit
looser than last time.

our challenge

to pause a breathto think of every seconda miniscule changean unseen alteration

triggering a radical departurefrom the usual next few eventsor perhaps nothing,
just a slight rustleof last season's leavesrotting in the guttercontemplating the multifacetedtree we live in, branches opened to the sky,

March062014

yellowtape house

a mile of yellowtape housewrapped up and glistening in goldsparks of meadow, the sheen of the sunthe rabbit that runs, the rabbit that hidesquivering in the shadow of sunset,the stalk of grain in its mouthsoaking up saliva

predator, preypick an anglepick a lens:a way to vieweach storm windoweach broken gutter

each stalk of cornmoonlight hitting the hillsa fresh kill, a fresh thought

the image painted in a picturethe image painted in a photo

miles and miles of yellowtape housemiles and miles of punch-tape sunset in a humble storyby a second gradernervously chewing his penciland eyeing the clockfor the releaseof recess.

mailbox

digging through the mailbox of unfortunate endsclimbing walls the loop back onto each otherthe mobius strip of boredomthe mobius strip of painthe mobius strip of what is tomorrow,
what can my squinting blurry eyes see,what curtains should i peel apartand gaze into, across abysses yawning with doubt,across oceans of uncertainty,the starfishes of probability popping in and out,

the sharks that pray on the weak,

the beautiful and the deadeight different pathsand only one walking stick,nine different skiesand only one plane.